


Make It Here, Make It Anywhere

by 1863



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Backstory, Concierge Training, Getting Together, M/M, Pre-Canon, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:48:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23302681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1863/pseuds/1863
Summary: Winston may not be in New York by choice, but that doesn't mean he won't find a way to take advantage of it.
Relationships: Charon/Winston (John Wick)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 16
Collections: Worldbuilding Exchange 2020





	Make It Here, Make It Anywhere

**Author's Note:**

  * For [asuralucier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/gifts).



4:29 A.M.

He could blame it on jet lag, but Winston has never been a fan of self-denial. In any context.

He grabs the last tiny bottle of whiskey from the minibar and empties it into his glass. For a moment, he debates whether or not he should go ahead and order a full-sized bottle, weighing up the pros and cons in his head the way he’d been taught to do from birth. _Consider every option,_ his father told him countless times, _and choose the one that benefits you most._

Well. Getting drunk in the privacy of his own hotel room is surely more beneficial than getting drunk in public again. 

Winston smiles to himself as he raises the glass to his lips; a little amused, a little bitter. He wonders what options his family had considered before deciding to send him here, to another country in another continent on the other side of the pond. Packed up and sent away like some kind of wayward teenager with a rebellious streak, and not a grown man with a proven track record with the High Table already.

 _Consider it a lateral move_ , his parents said, _and one you’d be unwise to waste._ And though the actual threat remained unspoken, the consequences of refusing were perfectly clear.

Oh, they trussed it up with the prettiest of euphemisms, the most sweetly-perfumed of lies, but the truth is still embarrassingly obvious: that this is not a step up or even sideways, nor is it some grand opportunity to prove himself worthy of his family’s reputation and fame. No – this is, essentially, a banishment; a complete and total disowning in everything but name. And had Winston refused outright to leave, the disowning _would_ be official – his very existence would be struck from the Table’s records and he’d be left with absolutely nothing. No coins, no connections, no home. Nothing.

Winston goes to the window and pushes the curtains aside. An unfamiliar city greets him, the street 25 floors below still buzzing with life despite the lateness of the hour. He’s too far up to see the dirt and the grime but Winston knows it’s down there, knows that despite being miles from the lurid neon glow of Times Square or the rotting alleyways of the Bronx, there’s no escaping the filth that lies at New York City’s core.

“Little wonder they sent me here,” he murmurs to himself, “of all places.”

He finishes off what’s left of his drink and contemplates the empty glass. There’s a part of him that wants to react in the most blatantly obvious way, to do something so publicly scandalous that his family would have no choice but to take more drastic action to save face. Indeed, had he been put in this position when he was younger, he probably would have done just that before he even made it to the airport, let alone left London. But Winston is well into his 30s now and he can see exactly where that path would end – the immediate gratification would fade almost instantly, and he’d be left with even less than what he started with.

No, Winston thinks, and puts the glass down. Better to bide his time and – 

He laughs suddenly and shakes his head. 

And do exactly what his father taught him to do, what his family has done for generations, even before they catered to the High Table’s whims.

Consider every option available, and choose the most beneficial one.

*

“May I help you, sir?”

Winston looks up from where he’s loitering in the doorway and freezes a little in surprise. Despite the slightly suspicious look on his face, the young man addressing him is quite shockingly beautiful – a tall and striking figure in a pristine chef’s uniform, crisp and white with not a stain in sight. Not that Winston can blame him for being suspicious, really. The kitchen is a restricted area even in normal hotels; the kitchen of a Continental even more so.

“Actually, yes,” Winston says after a beat, and pulls out one of his most charming smiles. “I’d like a bottle of whiskey, please.”

“This is the kitchen, sir.” The man tilts his head, peering at Winston over the tops of his glasses. “May I suggest visiting the bar, perhaps? Or you could simply call room service.”

His voice is just as appealing as his face, low and mellifluous with some sort of North African accent. Nevertheless, Winston still gets the distinct impression that he’s being threatened – albeit in the most polite and subtle of ways. 

“I believe you’ve caught me out,” Winston admits, and smiles again. “I’m here because I’m nosy, and because I wanted to do a little exploring. Although I wouldn’t say no to a bottle of whiskey, either.” 

“Be that as it may, sir, I’m afraid I need to ask you to leave. This area is not open to guests.” 

The man steps forward, one hand gesturing to the door, clearly prepared to move Winston by force if he has to. And yet, that air of polite calm remains. 

“And what about Managers?” Winston asks.

The man stills immediately. 

“Managers?” he repeats.

Winston offers his hand. “Managers,” he confirms. “I’ve just been transferred here from London.” 

For the very first time, the other man looks slightly off-balance. He blinks and quickly takes a step back. “My apologies, sir. I didn’t –”

“Winston.”

“I – I’m sorry?” 

“My name is Winston.” He closes the distance between them again, hand still outstretched. “And you are?”

Winston watches with great interest as the man pulls himself together again. It’s incredibly quick, started and finished in the space of a single breath: his shoulders pull back, his eyes clear, and whatever apprehension that was on his face before is smoothed out into something far, far harder to read. 

“Charon, sir.” He straightens his glasses and gives Winston’s hand a single, firm shake. “Welcome to the New York Continental.” 

And it’s those specific words and the specific way they’re said that make Winston stop and _really_ take notice – that as well as he wears the uniform, this man cannot possibly be a chef. Or at least, not _just_ a chef.

“Charon,” Winston murmurs. “I do believe I’m not the only one to have caused a case of mistaken identity here.”

At this, he’s gifted with a brief smile – a sudden flash of white teeth and a gleam of amusement in dark eyes – before Charon’s expression smooths out once more. 

“That would not be inaccurate, sir. My presence in the kitchen is only temporary.” 

Winston takes in the whole of him, gaze sweeping up and down in carefully concealed admiration. No wonder the man is so strangely calm.

“A Concierge,” Winston says.

“Not quite. I’ve yet to complete my training.”

“Close enough, surely.” Winston narrows his eyes. “You must be almost done if they’re allowing you near the food?” 

“Yes, sir. I am at the final stage.” 

Winston can’t be certain, not when Charon is so self-possessed, but he thinks he detects a hint of pride in that lovely, lilting voice. 

“What a wonderful moment of serendipity,” he remarks. “Or fate, if you believe in such things.”

Charon raises an eyebrow. “Sir?”

“The two of us meeting here, I mean.” He checks his watch: 5:02 A.M. “Standing in the kitchen on the cusp of a new day. And each of us on the cusp of new careers.” 

Despite the implications of what Winston just said, Charon shows only the barest hint of surprise. “You were not the manager of the London Continental?” 

“No.” Winston shrugs. “I worked for the Table in a different capacity.”

A beat of silence, then Charon frowns. “Service?” he asks, and self-possessed or not his doubt is so clear that Winston starts laughing, unable to stop himself. 

“Good lord, no.” He shakes his head, amused by the thought of what his family would say if they found out he’d been mistaken for someone in _service_ , of all things. Blood and guts and physical labour? That was even more abhorrent to them than the things Winston actually did to get banished here. “Nothing quite so… frontline.”

Charon nods slowly. “I see, sir.” 

And somehow, inexplicably, Winston gets the unshakeable sense that he does. That he's understood, perfectly so, and that Charon’s simple acceptance is just that – acceptance, no judgements or qualifiers necessary. 

“Are you just beginning your shift, Charon? Or just ending it?” 

“Beginning it, sir.” 

“Ah, what a pity,” Winston sighs. “I was hoping I could convince you to join me at the bar that you – very politely – suggested I go to. After all,” he adds with a smile, “a bottle of whiskey is rather a lot for one person.” 

To his surprise, Charon seems somewhat taken aback.

“I appreciate the offer, sir,” he says at length, “but shift aside, that would be against the rules.” 

Winston raises an eyebrow. “Drinking at the bar?” 

“Drinking with you,” Charon corrects, “in public.” He pauses, then his eyes widen slightly. “But I do not mean to suggest that we should drink in pri–”

“And yet,” Winston interrupts, “I’m glad you did.” Charon frowns again but protests no further, and Winston decides he’s pushed far enough for today. “I’ll take your suggestion under advisement,” he says. “But I fear I’ve kept you from your work too long.” He offers his hand again, and after a brief hesitation, Charon takes it. “It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Charon. I look forward to working with you.”

The formality seems to put Charon at ease. He smiles again, a barely noticeable shift in his expression but there all the same, and nods. 

“Likewise, sir. And should you require any help settling in, you need only ask. I would be happy to assist.” 

*

Winston waits two days before he ventures down to the kitchen again. And like the last time, it’s pre-dawn when he goes, partly because he’s still getting over the time difference but mostly because he knows that Charon will be there, just starting his shift.

“Are you always the first to arrive?” he asks, watching from the doorway as Charon starts checking inventory, ticking off items on a clipboard as he goes.

The kitchen is otherwise empty, all gleaming steel surfaces and clean white tile that make Winston’s voice echo out and fill the whole room. Charon glances up, briefly, but doesn’t pause in his task, unnervingly focused and methodical in the way that all Concierges are, whether they’re fully qualified or not.

“Yes, sir.” Charon flips a sheet of paper over and starts checking the next list. His lips quirk a little. “I enjoy the quiet.” 

“Subtle, Charon,” Winston deadpans, and gets a proper smile for the effort. “Is inventory the only thing you do down here, or is the training as extensive as I’ve been led to believe?”

Charon goes still for a moment, then actually puts the clipboard down. 

“A Concierge is required to have experience in every area of the hotel, sir.” He turns around to face Winston properly. “And as you yourself pointed out two days ago, the kitchen is one of the last places an apprentice is permitted to train, as it allows easy access to more… indirect methods of conducting business.” 

“Business not permitted on Continental grounds, you mean?”

“Yes, sir.”

Charon’s back is ramrod straight, and while his face remains calmly impassive Winston can detect a certain hardness in his eyes now, an ember of something burning too brightly to completely conceal.

He debates just letting it go, but the thought of Charon thinking ill of him is surprisingly unpleasant. 

“Charon,” Winton says, “I realise I’m new and that you’re not officially a Concierge yet, but I imagine that we’ll be working with each other quite closely soon enough. So may I offer you a small bit of advice?” 

“Of course, sir.” 

Winston smiles and walks further into the room, until he’s only an arm’s length away. 

“If I do or say something that offends you – just say so. I appreciate honesty more than arse kissing.” 

He offers his hand again, much like he did before, only now it’s not a greeting, it’s to seal a deal. And just like before, Charon hesitates before taking it – but not for long.

“Advice noted,” he says, as his fingers close around Winston’s hand. “No kissing.” Winston raises an eyebrow but Charon’s face remains impassive. “Of your arse, sir,” he adds. 

“Why, Charon,” Winston replies, another smile threatening to escape, ”I think you’ve been holding out on me.” He tightens his grip but Charon’s expression doesn’t change. “Could there possibly be a sense of humour lurking behind that unflappable mask of yours?”

“It is not a mask,” Charon says. “One cannot be a Concierge if one does not have the right temperament.” 

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“No, sir,” Charon agrees, a trace of amusement in his voice. “I did not.”

Winston shakes his head. “I don’t know if it’s the Continental in general or just you, Charon, but so far being a Manager isn’t quite what I expected.”

“I’m sorry if I offended you, sir,” Charon starts, but Winson waves the apology away.

“Honesty instead of arse kissing, remember?”

Charon nods. “Then in the name of honesty, may I offer you some advice in return?”

Winston gestures for him to continue. “Please.”

“When the official announcement is made, the staff will acknowledge that you are the Manager,” Charon says. “And that as the Manager, you are entitled to expect certain things.” He pauses to adjust his glasses, then looks Winston in the eye. “But that does nothing to change the fact that we _all_ serve the High Table.” 

Winston takes a moment to consider this, turning the words over in his head. 

“Entitled to expect certain things,” he repeats, slowly. “But what you’re telling me is that deference isn’t one of them?”

“There is a difference,” Charon points out, “between respect and subservience, sir. You should absolutely demand the former, but the latter..." Charon trails off. “I have only been here for a short time, but I am quite confident in saying that New York City is not the place to expect that from anyone.” 

Charon’s eyes brighten a little, in the way that Winston is starting to learn means something akin to silent laughter. 

“Point taken,” he says. “And official announcements or not, may I say that you are already performing your duties with great distinction.”

Charon inclines his head, accepting the compliment with the grace of king – or a Concierge. 

“Thank you, sir. I aim to be efficient.” He glances at the clipboard on the bench, half the list still unchecked. “And in the interest of efficiency, may I offer you some breakfast as well as advice?” 

“Breakfast?” Winston repeats blankly, the non-sequitur catching him by surprise. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

“To keep you... occupied here,” Charon clarifies, “while I finish checking the inventory.” He glances at the clock on the wall, above Winston’s head. “The rest of the kitchen staff will be arriving shortly.” 

Winston stares at him for a moment. The other staff would no doubt question his presence here, alone with Charon at this ungodly time of the morning – unless, of course, he has an obvious reason for being here. An obvious reason, like having breakfast while overseeing an apprentice Concierge as he checks the kitchen’s inventory.

“Charon,” Winston marvels, “you are beyond efficient, my friend. You’re practically clairvoyant.”

Charon shakes his head and gets a frying pan on the heat. 

“No, sir, not clairvoyant.” He glances over and smiles. “A Concierge,” he corrects.

*

“I trust the accommodations are to your liking?”

Winston’s jaw tightens.

“Yes, Mother. They’re fine.”

There’s a quiet sigh on the other end of the line, followed by several seconds of heavy silence. 

“You brought this upon yourself, Winston.” His mother’s voice is brittle with accusation and Winston smiles grimly when he hears it. There’s a certain perverse satisfaction in knowing that he’s actually managed to elicit some kind of emotion in her, even if it is just bitter embarrassment. “Had you been in your father’s position, you’d have done the exact same thing.”

“If you honestly believe that,” Winston replies, “then you really don’t know me at all.” He laughs a little. “But that would hardly be surprising, would it? Considering all your attention was always focused on Henry to begin with.” 

“How _dare_ you speak of your brother,” she snaps, the words bursting out as though she’d only been waiting for a chance to unleash them. “He was never –” She abruptly cuts herself off. 

Winston hears her sharp intake of breath and can practically see her before him, one manicured hand pressed against her throat, eyes closed and lips pressed into a thin, hard line. Forcibly willing herself to calm down, to school her face back into an acceptable mask of civility. These are lessons Winston learned too, long ago; how to prepare a face, as the old poem goes, to meet the faces you need to meet. Which is precisely why Winston can so easily see what’s under them.

“He was never going to be good enough,” Winston finishes for her. “And you and Father both knew it. No matter what schools you sent him to, or how many people you paid to prop him up, or how diligently you shoved me to the side.” His voice is bland and uninterested; these are old truths, their edges blunted, and whatever wounds they once inflicted scarred over years ago. “I understand why you blame me, Mother. But it’s hardly my fault that I’m everything you wished he could be and never was.” He pauses, thinking of what he’s done to end up here, then adds with a twist of his lips, “Well. Almost everything.” 

“Your brother may not have had the talent that you were born with, Winston,” his mother grits out, “but at least he had the good sense to be discreet.”

Winston feels a flicker of surprise – in its own way, this is as much a compliment as she’s ever given him. The moment is ruined only a second later, though, when she adds, in scathingly precise tones, “A _Manager_ , of all things. For God’s sake, Winston, that’s barely a step above service. And we were lucky to even secure that much for you.”

Winston holds the phone away from his ear as he takes a deep, steadying breath. For all that his mother prides herself on the family’s self-composure, for all that she believes no outsiders could ever pierce their carefully maintained facades, the truth is that Winston – the second son, the afterthought, the unexpected and the unwanted – has always, _always_ been better at this than they ever were. If his mother wants to play this game, then Winston will play to win.

“Thank you for calling, Mother,” he says, in the kindest, most pleasant of tones. “I do appreciate you taking the time out of your busy schedule to check in on me.”

“Winston –”

“But I’m afraid I have a rather urgent appointment to get to, one that I cannot possibly miss. So now I take my leave.” He makes sure the smile can be heard in his voice when he adds, sugar-sweet and laced with poison, “Do call again, Mother. I so enjoy our little talks.”

*

“Good morning, sir.”

Winston hadn’t actually been lying when he told his mother he had an appointment. He does have one – the same one he’s had every day for the past three weeks, and one he’s already loath to miss despite it being entirely unspoken.

“Good morning, Charon,” he replies, settling down in a chair by the main kitchen bench – the chair that mysteriously appeared the second time he showed up for breakfast, and has reappeared every time since.

Charon watches him in silence for a moment, then pulls out a mixing bowl from a nearby cupboard. He never asks what Winston feels like having, just starts making something as soon as Winston settles in, and it’s not even surprising anymore that he always seems to know exactly what to cook on any given morning. 

They don’t talk as Charon prepares breakfast, but Winston doesn’t mind the quiet. There’s something vaguely soothing about it, in the sounds of mixing and whipping and frying, in Charon’s calm and steady presence as he putters about. Had Winston grown up in anything approaching a normal household, it might have reminded him of home. 

“Pancakes,” he says, delighted, when Charon slides over a plate half an hour later. There’s a whole stack of them, topped with fresh berries and maple syrup, too. “I don’t think I’ve had pancakes in years.” 

Winston got over his jet lag some time ago but he’s quite happy to sacrifice a lie-in if he gets things like this in return. The company, as well as the food.

“You looked like you needed them,” Charon replies. He has a plate of his own too, and pours a veritable river of syrup all over it, until his pancakes are all but drowning in a pool of liquid gold. 

“Sweet tooth?” Winston asks, amused. To his astonishment, Charon actually looks mildly embarrassed. 

“It’s from Canada,” he says, as though that explains everything. When Winston just raises his eyebrows, Charon looks away and shrugs. “It’s quite exotic for me.”

Winston can’t help himself – he laughs. But he unthinkingly reaches out too, brushing his fingers over Charon’s bare forearm and the back of his hand, to let him know the laughter isn’t in ridicule – if anything, Winston is wholly charmed. And as soon as his fingers make contact with Charon soft, smooth skin, he knows he’s made a major mistake. 

Charon abruptly goes very, very still, and the look on his face becomes so rigidly blank that for a moment, Winston is sure that Charon is going to hit him. He’s seen that look before, on other men’s faces, when alcohol or longing or lust-driven stupidity made him overstep lines he knows he should never have crossed. 

“Charon,” he starts. He’s ready to explain but the words dry up on his tongue when he realises, suddenly, that all of them would have been lies. It almost makes him laugh again – after all, his immediate reaction upon seeing Charon for the first time was to think that he was beautiful. Winston starts to withdraw his hand but Charon’s fingers immediately close around his wrist, quick as lightning and strong as steel.

“I know you don’t mean to mock me, sir,” he says. Despite his initial reaction, his voice is as calm as ever. Their eyes meet and Charon lets him go, returning his attention to his pancakes. “Nairobi,” he adds, “is a long way from Quebec.” 

That’s all he says, leaving the sentence there for Winston to pick up if he wants to – or to leave alone and ignore if he doesn’t. Defusing the situation, Winston realises, with nothing more than a handful of well-chosen words. He’s always known that Concierges possess a very specific set of skills, but witnessing it now, first-hand and face-to-face instead of in the abstract, Winston is only just starting to understand why so few of them actually exist. Only one Concierge is assigned to each Continental, and it’s assumed that every Concierge has deep roots in whatever city their Continental is in. For Charon to have ended up here, in New York, instead of remaining in Africa – 

“You’re from Kenya, originally?” 

Charon glances at him as he cuts a small, precise triangle from his stack.

“Yes.” 

Winston waits for more but nothing else comes. And when he realises why, Winston can’t help but look at Charon with unguarded admiration, because as quick as Charon was to defuse the situation, he’s still managed to keep the upper hand. It occurs to him then, with sudden bright clarity, that Charon would be a powerful ally here. 

“Why New York?” he asks, getting straight to the point. 

Charon pauses to eat his forkful of pancake before answering. Winston is very careful not to let his gaze linger, to not watch Charon’s throat work as he swallows or to track the flick of his tongue as he delicately licks syrup off his lips. 

“It was offered to me,” Charon replies. 

Winston’s eyebrows shoot up. “Offered?” he repeats blankly. “But that’s –”

“Almost unheard of, yes.” Charon smiles a little. “Would it also surprise you to learn that I was not born to this?” 

“Your family has no connection to the hotels?” 

“I had no connection to the Table.”

Winston stares, disbelieving. “Then how –”

“Perhaps that can be a story for another day, sir,” Charon interrupts. “Your pancakes will go cold.” But there’s a trace of warmth in his voice now and Winston hears the unspoken promise there – Charon will tell him that story, if Winston wants to hear it. He wouldn’t have offered otherwise.

Winston starts in on his own pancakes and for a little while, that’s all they do – eat pancakes and drink coffee in silence. But it’s a surprisingly easy silence, a comfortable one, and as it stretches on Winston feels compelled to return the favour, to offer some piece of his own past in recognition of Charon offering a piece of his. 

“It seems we have that in common, Charon,” he says, idly pushing a blueberry around his plate. “I wasn’t born to this, either.” 

Charon looks thoughtful as he raises a mug of coffee to his lips. He takes a careful sip and steam billows across the lenses of his glasses, obscuring his eyes, but Winston can still feel them on him, steady and piercing, seeing things that most people did not. 

“You said you didn’t come from the London Continental,” Charon says. “That you were new to Management, but that you served the Table already.”

Winston nods. “Yes. My family… What my family does, there’s no specific title for. Not exactly. But if you need something done and don’t want to get your hands dirty, or if there are certain people with certain skills you want to contact, or if you just have a problem that needs to go away with a minimum of fuss… that’s when you’d call on us.” He smiles and twirls his fork in the air. “Provided you have the necessary funds to pay us for our trouble, of course.”

“I’ve heard of such people,” Charon says, leaning forward and eyes bright with open interest now. “That their services are difficult to acquire and that the price of such service is steep.” He seems to hesitate, then adds, “I’ve also heard that they occupy a rather unique place at the Table.” 

“Unique,” Winston repeats, amused. “You could say that, Charon.” He thinks of his brother, possibly more useful in death than he was in life; of the fact that his banishment means there's no one left to take over once his parents can no longer continue the family trade. “We don’t sit at the Table,” he adds, “but we don’t serve under it, either. Which is why my being here is somewhat... scandalous.”

“Just you being here, sir?” Charon’s eyes have become impenetrable again, mirror-still and showing Winston nothing but his own reflection. “Or the reason why you were sent here in the first place?” At Winston’s stare, Charon just shrugs. “You requested honesty, sir. And a Concierge always does their best to fulfill their Manager’s requests.” He pauses for a moment. “It was quite clear that you did not come here by choice.”

“Not then, no,” Winston says, before he can stop himself. Something shifts in Charon’s expression, but it’s far too subtle for Winston to decipher. 

“And now, sir?”

“Now…” Winston trails off. “Now I’m beginning to see that the power my family clings to so viciously is not the only kind to be had.” He searches Charon’s eyes again, and as difficult as they are to read, Winston still senses the edge of an unasked question there. “Honesty, Charon,” he reminds him. “Ask.”

Charon doesn’t hesitate. “Why did they send you away?”

Winston, however, _does_ hesitate. He considers the various ways he could answer – all truthfully, of course; it’s the least he can do, given that Charon has promised him the same thing. But the truth isn’t always absolute and with a family like his, Winston knows better than most how easy it is to manipulate.

“It’s not very interesting, I’m afraid,” he says, and chooses his next words carefully. “I just happen to have certain preferences that my family don't agree with. Preferences,” he repeats, flashing a small, rueful smile, “and the unfortunate tendency to indulge them in public.”

Charon is quiet for some time, methodically eating the rest of his pancakes until his plate is clean. 

“I think you will find, sir,” he replies eventually, as he stands and starts clearing away their dishes, “that there are parts of this city with a… more agreeable attitude, than that of your family.” There’s a brief, but very heavy, pause. “I have,” Charon adds slowly, “I have seen it first hand.”

Winston watches him turn away, the long line of his back visibly tense as he starts washing their plates and mugs at the sink. And as they lapse into silence again, Winston starts to suspect that Charon’s reaction to being touched earlier wasn’t the anger or disgust that he’d assumed it to be. That more likely, it was what Winston used to feel too, for years and years, before he made a conscious effort to ignore it.

A very familiar, very specific kind of fear.

*

“Mmm,” Winston hums in appreciation, setting his fork down on his almost empty plate. Eggs benedict today, complete with a textbook-perfect hollandaise made entirely from scratch. The flavour lingers on his tongue, rich and velvety with just the right amount of acidity to cut through it. “This was delicious, Charon. Are you sure you haven’t missed your true calling?”

Charon glances up from his clipboard, amused. “I’m sure the executive chef wouldn’t think so.”

“Ah yes, Monsieur Thibodeaux,” Winston murmurs. “I met him some time ago. To be honest, he strikes me as the kind of man who doesn’t think much of anyone, whether they deserve it or not.”

“An accurate assumption, sir.” Charon flips to the last page of the inventory list, long fingers absently tapping the edge of the clipboard. Winston is momentarily distracted by the way his eyelashes flick up and down as he scans the page, some trick of the light or the lenses of his glasses making them seem absurdly long and thick. “But I assure you, what he lacks in charm he more than makes up for in skill.”

He turns away, reaching up to check the contents of an upper shelf, and with no risk of being caught for now, Winston lets himself stare: the long stretch of Charon’s limbs, the elegant arch of his back, the exposed skin at the nape of his neck. Winston knows he should leave it alone, that he should bite back the urge to take this further and _push_ , but there’s a reason why his banishment was all but inevitable. He’s never been able to resist certain temptations, never been able to ignore those impulses that come from deep in his bones. To indulge himself when he can, because a life spent serving the Table is a life that may not last for very long.

But the fact that he’s ended up here, in this city, with this man and at this hotel? If nothing else, it tells him that what may well be a weakness is also the catalyst for some very, very good luck.

“Just as well cooking _isn’t_ your true calling, then,” he says. “Since you have no such lack. And then where would I be, hmm? Forever at a disadvantage, that’s where.”

And Charon goes still, just like he did before, and his face goes totally blank.

“Ah,” Winston adds, voice too quiet to allow either of them to pretend they don’t understand what this conversation is now about. “Honesty first, remember? And silence can count as arse kissing, you know.”

“You have not offended me, sir.” Charon looks up from the clipboard and very briefly meets Winston's eyes. “Quite the opposite, in fact.” Then his face seems to seize up, whole body going tense all over, and he adds in a sudden rush, “Nevertheless, sir, this cannot –”

“That reminds me,” Winston interrupts. Charon falls silent at once. “I understand the need for propriety when we’re in public, but in private?” He catches and holds Charon’s gaze. “Call me Winston.” 

He watches Charon struggle with this, with the conflict of breaking protocol versus defying a direct request. When Charon finally opens his mouth, Winston has no idea what the response will be.

“Winston,” Charon says, slowly and carefully, like he’s testing how the word feels on his tongue. He looks a little appalled but a little intrigued, too, and it’s enough for Winston to push again, just a little more.

“You make it sound quite romantic,” he remarks.

And Charon – Charon _smiles_. It’s tiny, and uncertain, and still tinged with fear, but it’s still a smile all the same. 

“Because of the accent, sir?” he asks, the glint in his eyes making it clear he used the title again on purpose.

Winston leans back in his chair, a smile of his own on his lips. “Too early to tell, I think,” he says. “But I suppose we’ll soon find out.” 

*

Winston emerges from his office just as the sun is beginning to set. The late afternoon rush will be starting soon and he’s made it something of a habit to walk the floor, as it were, at this time of day – just as the lobby gets busy with guests coming or going or just lounging around before dinner. 

“Afternoon, sir,” a security guard greets, when the elevator doors spring open. “Good day today?”

“Passable,” Winston replies. “But the day’s not over yet.”

“That a good thing or a bad thing, sir?”

Winston looks past him and into the quiet bustle of the lobby beyond. “You tell me, Mr. Prescott. What’s it like out there?” 

“Some flights to LA apparently got cancelled,” he replies. “So a few guests have been kicking up a fuss. The Concierge took care of it, though.”

Winston laughs a little. “Yes, I’m sure he did. Thank you for the heads-up, Mr. Prescott. I’ll see you in the morning.” 

He makes his way into the lobby proper, weaving his way through clumps of guests and nodding to various staff members that he passes by – Warren, the new porter; Mr Cohen, a maître d; Ms Singh, the Sommelier. It’s been some time since the official announcement was made and they all pause to greet him, raising a hand or tilting their heads in acknowledgement of one of their own. Winston finds himself smiling as he walks the floor, an undeniable sense of pride slowing his steps in order to better appreciate the well-oiled machine that is his Continental. 

And the heart of that machine is standing at the other end of the lobby, behind a desk that bears his title but not his name. To some degree, everyone who serves the Table can be stripped down to the function they perform – a Cleaner, a Tailor, an Adjudicator. But for some people it goes even further than that; for some, they possess such preternatural affinity for their chosen profession that the distinction between title and name becomes meaningless. They are what they do and they do what they are and if their names are ever shared or used, it’s only by a very select few. 

Charon cuts an impressive figure behind the Concierge desk, somehow seeming both welcoming and imposing at the same time. Most of the guests pay him little mind, seeing him only as a means to an end – asking about the city, or getting a room, or booking dinner reservations of a different kind. That’s to be expected with guests like these, specialists as they are in the more primal aspects of service. But some have a wider focus, a more lateral approach, and it’s those guests who linger at the desk for a time, who pause to chat and, probably, enjoy the view. Those are the ones who bother to ask for Charon’s name and for many reasons, professional and otherwise, they are the ones Winston makes it a point to get to know.

“Viggo,” Winston greets now, extending a hand as he gets within earshot of the desk. “Welcome home. How was Moscow?”

“Cold and miserable,” is the swift reply, before it’s chased with a wide grin. “And yes, I miss it already. But it’s good to be back after being gone for so long.”

“I have you here for two nights, Mr Tarasov,” Charon says. “Is that correct?”

Viggo nods. “Yes. I had to come back sooner than expected and my apartment is not quite ready yet. Ivanov, my assistant there –” he nods to a man standing a short distance away, still and silent and stern – “he requires a room also, if that is –?”

“No problem at all, sir.” Charon checks the system, fingers dancing over the keyboard. “Room 913. Directly across from your own.” A few more keystrokes, and then: “I can confirm there are no other Russians on the ninth floor.” He sees Viggo’s raised eyebrow and adds, with great delicacy, “You have been gone for some time, Mr Tarasov. Nature abhors a vacuum.”

“The safety of our guests is our highest priority,” Winston agrees. “Rules about conducting business notwithstanding.”

Viggo looks between them for a moment. “What a pair you make,” he mutters, but he’s grinning as he says it. He gestures for his assistant to gather their bags. “You’ll keep him in line, won’t you, Charon?”

The barest hint of a smile lights Charon’s eyes. 

“I will do my best, sir.” 

“Ah,” Viggo replies, amused. “An ambiguous answer from any other man, but from a Concierge? Winston, you are doomed.”

Winston doesn’t deny it, and Charon doesn’t fail to notice the lack of denial. All Charon does, however, is hand over the keys, and a minute later, Viggo is gone and the two of them are alone at the desk, no other guests waiting in line.

“Almost done for the day, Charon?”

“Yes, sir. Almost.” He eyeballs Winston over the frames of his glasses. “Is there something you need me to do?”

“Nothing in particular.” Other words bubble up in Winston’s chest, held back on the tip of his tongue, before he decides with sudden recklessness to just let them go free. “But I wouldn’t say no to dinner.”

It’s not a question, not quite, and Charon’s brief smile isn't really an answer. But Winston knows beyond any doubt that it doesn’t need to be – he and Charon understand each other perfectly.

*

“I assume you’ve established contact with Table representatives there.” 

His father’s accent is even more precise than usual, pronouncing each syllable so sharply that it slices right down to the bone. But Winston has heard it all his life and if it does still cut, he no longer feels the sting.

“Yes,” he answers shortly. “The Italian families as well as the Russians.” 

“Don’t bother with the Russians,” his father replies. Or rather, _orders_. “The Western Bratva are a separate entity and have virtually no power in comparison.”

“Not yet, perhaps, but –”

“They will never have a seat at the Table.” The voice on the phone becomes noticeably colder. “Don’t waste your time with the inconsequential.”

Finally, Winston thinks. A crack in the mask. 

“But, Father,” he says, impossibly polite, “I thought Managers were inconsequential, too? Surely I should be amongst my own people.”

There’s absolute silence on the line for a full minute; Winston knows this because he times it on his wristwatch. His father, no doubt, is doing the exact same thing.

“After enough time has passed,” his father says, “and if you acquit yourself well, your mother and I may be willing to reconsi–"

“Oh, that’s very generous of you, Father,” Winston interrupts. He smiles but he’s careful to keep the triumph out of his voice. “I do plan to acquit myself well, very well indeed. But I think you’ll find that I no longer require your generosity, nor anything else you might deign to bestow upon me.” His voice goes quiet, intimate in the way that he knows his father will recognise as a precursor to the most personal of attacks, the kind that use the deepest truths to pierce and bruise and burn. “In fact,” he adds, “I think you’ll soon realise that you are the one who may require generosity from _me_.”

Another full minute of silence, and Winston enjoys every last second of it.

“Our family has held this position for generations.” His father speaks slowly, carefully, like he’s trying to conceal how much of a struggle it must be to force each word out. “Would you really throw away so much history and power over something so petty?” The accent is less precise now, sharp edges starting to erode in a way that Winston has rarely heard it. “Would you really refuse to come home?”

Winston sighs, deliberately loud and deliberately dramatic. “Do you still not understand, Father? I _am_ home.” He lowers his voice again, taking a moment to relish the anticipation of delivering a killing blow. “And don’t forget, Father – you’re the one who sent me here.” 

“Winston,” his father starts, voice tight and urgent now, his mask of control slipping away. “ _Winston –_ ”

“In any case,” Winston adds, as though his father hadn’t spoken at all, “a good friend here has shown me that power comes in many forms. And as I’m starting to learn myself, this city is the perfect place to learn how to use it. How to gain it, how to delegate it, how to bend all sorts of things to one’s will. People, traditions…” Winston trails off. “Rules.”

“Don’t be so short-sighted, Winston,” his father snaps, falling back to righteous anger when nothing else will work. Winston resists the urge to laugh; it’s all so terribly, embarrassingly predictable. “A Manager could never hope to match the kind of influence that we –”

“Thank you for calling, Father. Do give my regards to Mother.” He pauses, and this time, he makes sure that triumph drips from every word. “And when the fact that you are without an heir and no longer have time to train a new one truly sinks in, you know where to find me.” He laughs, just to hear the sharp, outraged intake of breath on the other end of the line. “I know that asking for my help won’t be easy, but you’re the one who said it best, Father. Consider every option,” he quotes, with a deep sense of satisfaction, “and choose the most beneficial one.”

*

“More wine?”

Charon shakes his head. “No, thank you, si–” He stops and corrects himself: “No, thank you.” 

Winston doesn’t bother repeating the request to call him by name; he knows by now that Charon’s compromise is to simply not call him anything at all. Not even here, in Winston’s own private suite, where no else could possibly hear them.

“It’s not to your liking?” he asks instead.

“On the contrary,” Charon replies quickly, “it’s excellent.” He pauses, then adds with some hesitation, “Far too excellent for an average dinner with me.” 

“No dinner with you is average, Charon.” Winston doesn’t wait for a reaction to that and just barrels on instead. “But you’re quite right. I chose this wine for a reason – to mark a special occasion.”

Charon sits up. “Did I miss an event?” he asks, and looks quite alarmed. “Was something scheduled? There was nothing in the hotel’s calendar, I’m sure of it, I check it every morning and prepare weeks in advance –”

“It wasn’t in the calendar,” Winston assures. “Don’t worry, Charon – your record of supreme efficiency remains unbesmirched.” He can hear the fondness in his own voice but can’t bring himself to care, especially when he sees Charon hide a smile when he hears it, too. “I spoke to my father last week.”

Charon watches him closely but says nothing, simply waiting for him to continue. Winston has never spoken about his father, not directly, but Charon knows enough about his family now to understand that this is not an insignificant event.

“It’s official, now,” he adds. Winston drains what’s left of the wine in his glass. “I am the Manager of the Continental,” he says, “and that’s all I am.” 

He meets Charon’s eyes and sees a complicated swirl of thoughts there, none of which Charon gives voice to. What he does do, however, is reach across the table and pick up the bottle of wine. 

“Are we drinking in celebration,” Charon asks carefully, “or commiseration?”

“Celebration,” Winston replies immediately, leaving no room for doubt – his own, nor Charon’s. “Celebration, Charon.” 

Winston watches him absorb this. Not that long ago, the tiny shifts in Charon’s expression would have been all but invisible to him – he’d have seen only the inscrutable face of a Continental Concierge and nothing of the man beneath it. Now, though? Six months since his banishment, four months since becoming a Manager, five days since he forced his father’s hand – Winston recognises the empathy in those downcast eyes, as well as the relief in the softened line of that wide, distracting mouth. Celebration or not, Winston knows that Charon understands what this has cost him.

And when Charon lifts his head and looks right at him, when he stands and rounds the table until there’s nothing between them but a foot of empty space and a thin veneer of professionalism, Winston sees something else darken Charon’s eyes, too.

“In that case,” Charon says, “allow me.” 

He refills Winston’s glass first, and as Winston stands to take it, Charon doesn’t so much as flinch when Winston’s hand lingers, fingertips brushing over his wrist and knuckles. 

“Will you make a toast to mark the occasion?” Winston asks.

Charon starts to turn away to refill his own glass, but Winston reaches out and touches his wrist again. That’s all it is, just a touch, but it’s enough to make Charon go still. 

Winston takes the bottle from him and puts it back down on the table. Then he takes Charon’s wrist and guides him to wrap his hand around Winston’s own wine glass, where Winston’s other hand is still curled around the stem.

“A toast?” Charon repeats, when Winston meets his eyes again. His voice is quiet, and his hand is very warm. “To what?”

Winston raises the glass – theirglass, really. Not his, not anymore, and not Charon’s; now it’s something shared between them. 

“Freedom,” he answers, and like all the other times when they didn’t need actual words to hear what was being said, he knows that Charon will understand. 

He lets his hand fall away when Charon moves to take a sip of the wine, watching Winston the entire time. And Winston can see things moving there, in the depths of those dark, dark eyes, immense and profound and powerful things that he suspects Charon has never allowed to surface. But perhaps he doesn’t need to, Winston thinks, when Charon wordlessly offers him the glass again but doesn’t let it go. His hand is still warm beneath Winston’s fingers – too warm, really. Burning. Winston takes the glass and puts it back on the table when he’s taken a sip of his own, and with nothing left to hold onto now Charon’s hand is visibly shaking, a tremor that’s echoed in his voice when he says, barely above a whisper:

“To freedom.”

Winston stares at Charon’s shaking fingers, hand still held up, uncertainly, in the space left between them. 

“To freedom,” Winston repeats, just as quietly, and takes that hand in his. And slowly, eventually, he feels the tremors subside, easing up until the palm pressed against him is nothing but steady. Charon’s fingers curl, and squeeze, and then – then they _tug_. 

“Winston,” he says, his mouth only inches away now, and just the sound of that voice saying his name – so rarely heard – is enough to make Winston’s pulse race, let alone hearing it said so unsteadily. “Winston, I –”

He falls silent when Winston starts moving his head, closer and closer and closer, gaze flicking from Charon’s mouth to his eyes and back again. Winston knows he could have forced the issue, just grabbed Charon by the head and taken what is so clearly being offered, but as much as Winston wants to taste the mouth so maddeningly close to his own, he doesn’t want it like that. He’s done that before, with other men; rushed and heated, furtive and quick. And while there are certainly pleasures to be had that way too, Winston can’t deny that this – Charon – is different. That everything is different now: this moment, this man, this city... and perhaps most of all, Winston himself.

He hears Charon’s breath quicken as he gets closer, and sees it too, in the rapid rise and fall of Charon’s chest. But Charon doesn’t back away, not even a little, and when Winston is so close that they’re breathing the same air, it’s Charon who loses control and leans in the rest of the way.

A brush of warm lips, an uneven intake of breath, and then Winston’s mouth is opening, welcoming, helpless to resist this most careful of requests, this most gentle of invitations. But then Charon’s fingers curl into Winston’s shirt, and his other hand comes up and grabs a fistful of Winston’s hair, and all at once it’s not gentle or careful at all. It’s nipping teeth and agile tongue and a long slow dirty slide, and Winston grabs blindly for Charon’s hips as the thought of Charon’s tongue doing that to other places makes him moan. 

But as soon as Winston tries to drag him closer, Charon breaks the kiss, turning his head and panting hard into Winston’s neck. 

“Wha– “ Winston gasps, disoriented by the loss. “Why did you – Don’t you want –”

“I do.” Charon lowers his head and presses his forehead against Winston’s shoulder, struggling to catch his breath. “ _Hujui ni kiasi gani nataka hii,_ ” he adds, voice a harsh whisper _._ “ _Au nimeitaka kwa muda gani._ ” 

Winston doesn’t understand the words but he recognises the sentiment behind them. It’s there in Charon’s rough, breathless voice, in the way his fingers dig into the back of Winston’s neck. And despite the rush of need racing through his veins, it’s a sentiment that Winston shares.

He slowly leans back, just enough to see Charon’s face.

“Why don’t we,” he starts, and has to pause to take a breath when Charon lifts his head and looks at him again. There's a faint but visible resignation in his eyes, and that Winston can see it at all, that Charon didn’t – or couldn’t – hide it, is significant in and of itself. “No, Charon,” he adds quickly, “I don’t mean – that’s not –” 

Winston forces himself to stop and take another breath, to think things through before he speaks again. He knows that what he says now will have consequences that go beyond whatever is happening between them; that as Manager and Concierge, they cannot afford misunderstandings of any kind.

“I just meant,” Winston says, “that perhaps we should –”

“– save this celebration for another time?”

Winston stares at him for a moment, then shakes his head. “There’s that Concierge clairvoyance again,” he says, and gets a small smile in return. “Always one step ahead.”

“My job is to anticipate other people’s needs."

“And what about your own needs, hmm?” Winston searches his eyes and sees only the faintest glimmer of thoughts there, all of them hidden and none he can read. “Who sees to those?” 

“I do,” Charon says. “As I’ve always done before.”

His voice is calm and steady – too steady, really, to not be hiding deeper truths.

“What about your family?” Winston asks. “Your friends?”

And Charon smiles, as though he knew that Winston wouldn’t be able to ignore the instinct to push. 

“I have none.” He pauses, then amends, “I had none.”

Winston reaches up and straightens Charon’s tie, smooths his palms over the wrinkles in his shirt. 

“And now?

Charon grabs his wrists, stilling Winston’s hands against his chest.

“Now, I am a Concierge,” he says. He looks away, briefly, and when he meets Winston’s gaze again, there’s something steadfast in his eyes, something settled in place that hadn't been before. “And now, I have a Manager.” 

Winston nods. “Yes, you do,” he agrees. His voice is more serious – and honest – than it has been in a long, long time. “You know, it occurs to me,” he adds, glancing out the window, where thousands of city lights illuminate a skyline that’s become a familiar sight, “neither of us have roots in this place. We’re both new, both still learning all its secrets and the intricacies of how it works.” He turns to face Charon again. “Some might say that puts us at a disadvantage.”

“And you?” Charon asks. “What do you say?”

“I’d say it’s quite the opposite.” 

Winston leads him to the window and together they look out over the city, its buildings climbing up into the sky and its streets spreading out to the horizon. It’s a vast place, crammed with people and problems and dangers and threats, but Winston knows that wherever those things exist, other things can also flourish – provided you know where to look. 

“We just need to consider all the options, Charon,” he adds. “And –”

“Choose the most beneficial one?” 

Winston cuts him a sidelong glance. “Are you sure you’re not psychic?” 

“Quite sure,” Charon replies. Out of the corner of his eye, Winston sees him smile. “But for what it’s worth, I agree with you.” He steps closer to the window, fingers brushing lightly over the back of Winston’s hand – and staying there, warm and sweet and only a little bit hesitant. “They do call America the land of opportunity, after all.” 

“That they do,” Winston murmurs. “And as you so eloquently put it to Viggo Tarasov, nature abhors a vacuum.” Winston does what he always does, what his father and grandfather and great-grandfather all did before him: he weighs up the pros and cons, the consequences and the risks, then makes the offer anyway. “What do you say, Charon?” he asks, and nods to the window – to the city beyond it, and to their own reflections in the glass. “Shall we take what’s right in front of us?” 

Charon turns to face him, leaving no doubt that he can hear every question that’s being asked.

“Yes, Winston,” he answers, and smiles when he sees Winston take a breath at the sound of his name. “I think we shall.”


End file.
